


Those Ruins Up in the Mountains

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Magic, Pitioss Ruins, Poor Noct, Rescue, Serious Injuries, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: The circle of runes on the far wall is glowing, white and faint like moonlight, and as soon as they step in close to look it over, the whole ground shifts under them and starts to descend."This better not be like that tower in the Fallgrove," says Prompto, hugging his arms in close with a reflexive shudder at the memory.It's worse than the tower in the Fallgrove.





	Those Ruins Up in the Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up, guys! There's a description of an injury in here that has the potential to be pretty squick-inducing. Be aware, if that's not something you can stomach very well.
> 
> Also, this is my first full fic from Gladio's pov. It was pretty fun, actually. :|a
> 
> For the anon on the kink meme who wanted:
> 
> It's been DAYS, and Noct still hasn't come out of those weird ruins up in the mountains.
> 
> The chocobros soldier up and go in to fish him out. He's in a bad way when they get there - leg impaled on a spike and unable to pull himself free or something.
> 
> Lots of hurt/comfort. Because screw this dungeon, seriously. Poor Noct.
> 
> Bonus:  
> -They all finish Pitioss together

For the first time in ages, they're all up before the sun.

Gladio lays it right at the feet of the damn kingatrices that won't stop crowing. There's two of them, he's pretty sure, and they're calling back and forth like it's a contest over who can give him a bigger headache.

Even Noct's up, standing in the open tent flap, hair still mussed with sleep, rubbing at his eyes. "The hell's all the noise about?" he says.

"Local wildlife," Gladio grunts.

Nearby, Ignis is already heating the water for coffee. No sense being up without caffeine, is Iggy's take on it, and Gladio can't say he disagrees.

Noct stifles a yawn and shambles out onto the bare rock of the haven, looking more like the undead from one of those trashy horror flicks he likes than the king of Insomnia. "They gotta be so loud about it?"

"Aw," says Prompto. "Give em a break. It's like the natural way of things. The sky's blue, Iggy's cranky before coffee, kingatrices make that godsawful sound before dawn."

Noct fixes Prompto with a flat look. "You're cheerful," he says, just as Ignis puts in, "The sky won't be blue for some hours yet."

"You see?" says Prompto, cheerfully. "Cranky."

Gladio waves a hand. "He's just keyed up cause he got some shot of one of the babies in the moonlight."

"Some shot?" says Prompto, mock-offended. "Come on – only _the_ best shot of the whole trip."

That seems to wake Noct up a little. "You went wandering around by yourself out here at night?"

"Pretty safe," Gladio admits. "Those Niff drop ships haven’t bugged us since we got further up into the mountains, and we haven't seen a daemon since we've been out here, either. Guess there're places too remote even for them."

"So long as we don't decide to rile the local wildlife," Ignis puts in, "we ought to be fine." He checks the coffee water – settles down again to watch it boil like a hawk perched over a gopher hole.

Noct disappears back into the tent at that, stifling a yawn – but to Gladio's surprise, he doesn’t sack back out. He reappears some fifteen minutes later, hair mostly put-together, pajamas swapped out for his white t-shirt and black jeans.

"If those damn things won't keep it down for me to sleep, think I'm gonna go poke around those ruins."

"What, by the stairs?" Gladio says. "Not much there."

Ignis, sipping his coffee and looking about twenty times more approachable, puts in, "Would you care for some company?"

Prompto's busy tapping at his camera screen, but he glances up at that. "I could come," he says. "Bet I could grab a couple shots of the sunrise if you boost me up one of those trees."

Noct snorts. "And have you get stuck halfway up, like you did on that ledge on Ravatogh? Not a chance."

"Dude," Prompto calls after him. "That was one time!"

But Noct's already ambling down the stone side of the haven, one hand lifted in a lazy wave. "Be right back," he calls.

Gladio watches Noct go. He reaches over, companionably, and steals a sip of Ignis' coffee. He says, "I give him half an hour, tops, before he's bored out of his mind."

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours come and go, and bring the dawn with them. Noct's still not back.

"Huh," Gladio says. "His Royal Laziness actually found a hike he didn't hate. Will wonders never cease."

Prompto glances off in the direction Noct disappeared. "You think he found a way up the mountain?" he says, blatantly longing.

The kid's got the worst poker face Gladio's ever seen. He doesn't know if this particular set of puppy eyes is over the missed photo ops, or Prom's gigantic, completely transparent crush on his best friend, but Gladio gives him a teasing kind of shove anyway. He totally deserves it. "If he did, it's not going anywhere. We can all go check it out later."

"Yeah," says Prompto. "I guess." He's busy tapping at his phone already, though – probably grilling Noct about angles and lighting and whatever other things artsy types need to set up a shot.

Gladio leaves him to it – doesn't worry too much when Prompto starts fidgeting and checking his phone every five minutes. 

Sometimes Noct doesn't look at his texts for a while. He's lazy about staying in touch, way more than royalty has any right to be. Makes it a damn pain to track him down when he wants to get himself lost. It used to drive King Regis up the wall.

So instead of worrying, Gladio settles in with his book. It's a pretty good one, set in the middle ages in Tenebrae, lots of thees and thous and nobility and politics and backstabbing, with a sword fight or twenty thrown in for good measure. He gets lost in it for so long he doesn't notice how much time has passed until Ignis says, "Lunch is nearly ready."

Gladio washes up, and he gets his plate, and it's not till Iggy's dished him up a couple of skewered trout that he looks around and notices Noct's still not there.

"He still out playing explorer?" Gladio says, and bites into one of the fish. It's great – crackly skin with a thick, sweet glaze. Iggy's outdone himself, like always.

"Not answering his texts, either," says Prompto, and his face is easier to read than Gladio's novel.

"Hm," says Ignis. He's just served his own plate, but he sets it aside, and slips his phone out of his pocket. "I'll just tell him lunch is ready, shall I?"

The phone rings and rings – and that's the first warning flag.

Everyone knows damn well you don't ignore Iggy when he tries to call.

 

* * *

 

There's no path up into the mountains. There's a blank wall with a circular rune, and a bunch of bare trees, and craggy, impassable rock.

By the time they poke around the area and get back to camp, just before sunset, lunch has long gone cold.

"Calm yourselves," says Ignis, in what's trying to be a reasonable tone. "We've no need to panic."

"Who's panicking?" says Prompto, who's been panicking for the better part of an hour. "I mean, we've got a plan." He pauses. "We, uh. We do have a plan, right?"

"Indeed," says Ignis, and some of the wire-tight tension goes out of Prompto's shoulders. "We'd best organize a proper search attempt."

So Iggy does it up like they're searching for a missing kid in the woods – lays out the map, and the area they need to cover. They each get assigned a third of the available ground, and looking it over, Gladio frowns at how much damn space they have to sweep.

Noct could be anywhere.

"How do we know he didn't warp up onto a ledge or something and get into the mountains that way?" Gladio asks.

Ignis rubs at the bridge of his nose, a telltale sign that a migraine is brewing. "We don't."

Gladio frowns down at the map. "So we cover this first, and then...?"

"Then we find a way to attempt other options."

 

* * *

 

They search through the night and most of the following morning, combing ground black with volcanic ash and prowled by giant, irritable birds.

By sunup, Gladio's got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Noct's irresponsible, sure. He can even be kind of a brat. But he'd be back by now, if nothing had gone wrong. No way he'd have stayed out overnight.

They search the area again in daylight, in case they missed anything, and by mid-afternoon, Iggy's worked out a way to get them up onto one of the higher ledges. It involves a hell of a lot of lifting, and using a broadsword as an axe, and taking down a couple trees to make an awkward ramp, but it gets them there, and that's the most important thing.

Once they're up, they traipse through craggy, uneven mountain passes until they lose the light. Then they put on their flashlights and keep going, damn well aware that any wrong step could be a broken ankle or worse.

Every inch of ground they cover, Gladio wonders a little more if he should start thinking in worst case scenarios.

Maybe some Niff ship set down, after all, and Noct's in an Imperial prison right now, waiting for a jail break that's not coming. Maybe he's in the stomach of some dumb oversized rooster. Maybe he's smashed to pieces at the bottom of a cliff, mostly a red smear across the rock.

Maybe the king's Shield was reading his godsdamn novel while his charge wandered off to get killed.

Gladio grits his teeth together and does his best to ignore that thought. He bows his head, and he pushes on, and when dawn comes, they've still got nothing.

"We'd best start a rotating schedule," says Ignis. "We'll sleep in shifts, until he's found."

And that – that's how Gladio knows they're in for the long haul.

 

* * *

 

They find the way in by accident, two days later.

It's Prompto's turn to sleep, but he's sitting hunched miserably over his camera, instead. Gladio catches a glimpse of Noct on the edge of the screen, slanted smile and windblown hair.

"Just go to bed already," Gladio snaps, out of patience. He's got nothing left – not for Prompto's lovesick mooning, or Iggy's careful pragmatism, or even for the leaden, helpless feeling buried in his own stomach.

Prompto jumps – fumbles the camera – nearly drops it.

"Right," he says. "Sorry."

And he looks down at the screen to turn it off again – but pauses before he can. He frowns, then taps the screen to make it bigger.

"Hey," he says. "You think he could've warped up into this window?"

"What window?" says Gladio, and snatches the camera away.

And there it is, sure enough – a little crack of an entryway that looks just big enough for someone with a narrow build and no common sense.

"Son of a bitch," says Gladio.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, they don't have to find a way up into the window.

The circle of runes on the far wall is glowing, white and faint like moonlight, and as soon as they step in close to look it over, the whole ground shifts under them and starts to descend.

"This better not be like that tower in the Fallgrove," says Prompto, hugging his arms in close with a reflexive shudder at the memory.

It's worse than the tower in the Fallgrove.

The damn place is a deathtrap, full of a thousand tiny ways to take a wrong step. A room in, Ignis takes the lead to plot the way forward and prevent nasty falls. Prompto's pale as a ghost; he's plummeted into the darkness twice already, and got snagged by glowing red-hot spikes another.

It's a bad place to be clumsy.

Small blessings, though: every time Prom takes a plunge, he gets dropped back on his feet, shaking and a little paler, near where they came into the room. Whatever this place is, it's got some serious magic going on. Gladio never thought a location could replicate the kind of power buried in the down of a phoenix, but this one sure seems to.

Plus, they're on the right track. Ignis spots a scrap of black fabric tucked into a tight squeeze in the rock that looks like it might be part of Noct's t-shirt. Gladio catches sight of a smear of blood along the wall not long after.

And the good news, if there is good news, is that Noct's paved the way for them. There are doors open that Gladio's pretty sure Noct had to figure out how to get past. There's a broken statue, and an open cage, and empty treasure chests. 

All they have to do is follow the path.

 

* * *

 

The path leads them to a whole room full of those damn spikes.

The ground bristles with them, and the heat rolling off them in waves is enough to make Gladio sweat. Prompto's trying to give them a wide berth, but it looks like there's no way to go but straight over, on tiny stone oases. 

"This is bullshit," says Gladio.

"Yes," says Ignis. "You've made your opinion remarkably clear."

"We need the next step up from bullshit," says Prompto, who's eying the spikes like a chocobo about to bolt. His voice is higher than usual with stress, too loud in the somber building. "This is like, behemoth shit."

Ignis closes his eyes and takes a breath. He opens his mouth to reply.

And just then, a voice says, "Prompto? _Guys_?"

It's definitely Noct. He's definitely hoarse and raspy, and the second word definitely cracks a little, straight down the middle.

Something in Gladio's gut turns over at the sound of it. "Noct?" he bellows. "Where are you?"

"Down here!" Noct calls back.

Gladio cranes his neck to look – can't see anything but spikes. 

"Gimme a sec," he says, to Iggy and Prompto. Then he takes two steps back, gets a bit of momentum, and launches himself off the ledge. It's tough going, but he hasn't drilled damn near daily since he turned seven to overbalance onto a bed of spikes. He's done fancier footwork than this on the training room floor – though not, admittedly, by much.

Still, he hits the end of the chamber in less than a minute – calls out again. "Noct?"

"Here," says Noct, voice much closer now.

This time when Gladio looks down, he sees him.

It was a bad landing. He didn't hit the spikes head on, or he'd probably have flickered back to the start of the room like Prompto's been doing. No – he went down sideways, must've caught a ledge on the way down.

And mostly, he missed the spikes. Mostly.

He's on the rectangular swath of metal at the very end of the chamber, the one down in the pit, between the spikes and the exit. Only, his right leg didn't quite clear the obstacle, and now he's skewered straight through, the tip poking out through the fabric of his waders on the other end.

"Shit," says Gladio.

"Yeah," says Noct. His face is white with the pain, and he tries to put on a smile but ends up grimacing, instead. "Wanna give me a hand?"

"On it," says Gladio.

He glances back to the entrance, where Iggy and Prompto are waiting – calls out, "He's stuck down here. Gimme a few."

Then he takes a breath, aims for the spike-free zone along the edge, and jumps. 

Thank all six Astrals, he lands it.

He doesn't have time to appreciate his own legwork, though. He's got a front row seat  to the damage, now, and it isn't pretty.

There's not a lot of fresh blood; the skin is kind of closed around the spike, in a weird sort of pucker. It's turning colors, radiating out from the impact site – blistered red, and a deeper, charred sort of brown. There's a heavy, meaty scent on the air, and Gladio almost gags when he realizes it's the smell from the spike cooking Noct's flesh.

Noct's face is tight with agony, paper-pale and slick with sweat. He grabs at the hem of Gladio's pants, and he says, "Say you've got a potion."

Gladio reaches for the one in his pocket, then hesitates. "You're gonna heal around that thing."

Noct scrabbles a little, like he's trying to drag Gladio down. "I already _have_ ," he says, voice edged with desperation. "I went through my whole stock. You're gonna have to rip it free anyway."

And that's a hell of a mental picture: Noct trying to wrench his own leg away, not quite able to handle it because of the pain. Noct downing a potion to take the edge off, only to get cooked from the inside out – again and again, until he's out of curatives and the only option he's got left is to wait.

Gladio swallows against the bile at the back of his throat.

He digs in his pocket and presses a potion into Noct's hand. He pretends he doesn't see how bad Noct's shaking, when he swallows it down.

And gods, no sooner have the green glimmers of the healing magic faded than the flesh mottles and starts to turn pink again, already beginning to burn. Noct bites the base of his thumb, trying to stifle a groan.

And Gladio crouches down, as best he's able in the narrow space. He gets one hand under Noct's knee, and one under his ankle, and he says, "You ready?"

Noct's eyes are a little glazed. He licks at his lips, and he says, "Yeah."

Gladio pulls.

When he meets resistance, he keeps pulling. When the flesh tears, and Noct twitches and screams, reaching instinctively for his leg, Gladio grits his teeth and pulls harder.

Then it's free and clear, and Ignis and Prompto are calling out from the other end of the chamber, voices raised in alarm. 

Noct's head lolls against the metal of the floor; he's barely conscious, face sheened with sweat. He blinks twice, like he's waking from a deep sleep – rubs a shaking hand over his mouth. Then he leans over to one side to puke.

Nothing much comes up. It's thin and watery, like he hasn't eaten in a while – and come to think of it, he probably hasn't. Why bring a snack with you when you're expecting to be back in time for lunch?

"Is he okay?" says Prompto.

"Do you require assistance?" says Ignis.

"I'll let you know in a minute," Gladio calls back, to both of them, unscrewing the next potion bottle and dumping it directly onto Noct's leg.

Everywhere the liquid touches, the skin is washed with the shimmering green of magic. In its wake, the awful, welted red fades back to something pale and smooth, and the gaping hole where the spike used to be starts to pull in at the edges, trying to close.

Noct works his mouth. "More," he manages, with difficulty.

Gladio's already got the elixir uncapped. 

He splashes it over the wreckage of Noct's leg, and instantly the skin starts to knit closed. Noct's face goes slack; his eyes slip shut with what has to be relief.

It was a nasty wound, though, and Gladio's not taking chances. He presses another elixir into Noct's hand.

Noct drinks it straight down. When he's done, he just sits there for a minute, decidedly dazed.

"How's that?" says Gladio.

Noct's eyes trail upward to Gladio's face. He flexes the leg, almost reluctantly; the foot shifts and turns the way it's supposed to. There's no hint of pain in his expression, but he's still pale as hell, and he's slumped against the wall, limp and boneless.

"Better," he says, fervently.

Gladio gives him another minute.

He turns his eyes out over the bottomless pit beside them and tries not to listen to the way Noct's breathing is ragged and a little unsteady.

"Prompto and Specs?" Noct says, at last.

"Waiting on the other side of the room," says Gladio.

There's a shuffling sound, and when Gladio glances down, he sees that Noct's levered himself up to a position that counts as sitting, more or less. He rubs at his mouth, and he tips his head back, and he calls: "I'm okay!"

His eyes lock with Gladio's as he says it, dark and fever-bright –  daring him to claim otherwise. 

But all Gladio says is, "Let's get the hell out of here."

 

* * *

 

Noct's still kind of out of it at dinner.

He gets through maybe half a bowl of soup before he tips over sideways onto Prompto and gets his leftovers all over the kid's pants.

So Gladio scoops Noct up like he's all of eight years old – princess-carries him into the tent and maneuvers him into the sleeping bag.

The next day, he sleeps in till noon, and not a one of them give him a hard time about it.

 

* * *

 

The ground water near Ravatogh stinks like sulfur, but it bubbles up hot and clear, and it's damn fine on sore muscles. Noct soaks in it for near an hour, until he's not quite so caked in grime; then he scrubs off the rest.

He puts on a clean change of clothes. He eats the croque madam Iggy makes for breakfast, and he eats the egg Prompto slides onto his plate, and he helps himself to an extra slice of toast or two.

Then he says, "I'm going back in there," like he's some knight in Gladio's novel, slapping an ancient ruin across the face to declare a duel to the death.

Sweet Six, the king he's sworn to is an idiot.

Gladio's never been more proud.

 

* * *

 

It really is a deathtrap.

They bite it five ways to Sunday, all of them – right up until Iggy manufactures some makeshift grappling hooks with rope and finesse and a few lucky finds in Noct's Armiger.

Then the going gets easier. Not _easy_ , because the wall's got no business turning into the floor, and that is one hell of a giant skull, and some of these planks might as well be in a high wire act at a circus. But easier.

Every time they fall, they flicker right back in where they started. Noct doesn't even scream his head off the first time he hits those spikes again, and that – well, points for style.

It takes them three days to reach the end, battered, filthy, and all of them about an inch from snapping under the pressure.

But Noct steps up to stare out the window – down onto the set of stairs they climbed what feels like a lifetime ago.

He looks back over his shoulder with a slanted smile. "Cake, baby," he says.

Then he steps straight out the window and into the bright, moonlit night.


End file.
